


Pawns in a chess game and blood stained names

by Chaosandgunpowder



Series: Carved in gold and ice (Jamilton mob!verse) [8]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex is a manic lawyer, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Language, Just a whole load of Washingdad, M/M, They're both twisted little bastards, Thomas is a mob boss, but not in this, zero mob action
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28201221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaosandgunpowder/pseuds/Chaosandgunpowder
Summary: Alexander would probably fight to the death if he needed to but it's really his own damn choices that he needs protecting from, and it worries George beyond measure that he's not always going to be around to do that, that one dayit sounded like funis going to be the death of him.[Jamilton Mob!verse ft. mob-boss Thomas and manic-lawyer Alex] in which George only ever tries to protect Alexander from himself, and even then, he doesn't always succeed.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Series: Carved in gold and ice (Jamilton mob!verse) [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930312
Comments: 37
Kudos: 110





	Pawns in a chess game and blood stained names

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow yet another mob!verse fic lacking any actual mob action #sorrynotsorry
> 
> Ahaha as if I once thought that there wasn't enough in me of Wash's POV to make a full peice.
> 
> Also apologies in advance that this somehow ended up reading way more sad than it was in my head. Whoops. Have some pseudo-parental angst to start off this promising new year. 
> 
> [For timeline purposes, this is set....pretty much all over. You'll figure it out, I'm sure.]

A month into his sabbatical, already bored out of his mind and regretting it, George’s friend Henry Gage asks if he wants to come and speak in a series of winter guest talks he’s setting up for his PoliSci class about a career in the judicial system and he agrees before the question is even fully spoken aloud.

He’s so keen for something to do that he doesn’t even really care whether they pay all that much attention, but he’s pleasantly surprised, because they do, and because they listen and ask questions; though granted most of them come from a scrawny kid in the third row who makes far too much eye contact and asks things that push completely beyond George’s _introduction._ He’s weirdly intense, sharp-eyed and focused as he takes what George has said, skips over it and goes right on into bending and subverting the interpretation of the words in such a way that he can’t help wonder what the hell this kid is majoring in because he’s obviously barely nineteen and already thinking so much like an attorney that George is half expecting him to start lobbying hard for a straight-up dismissal of the _hypothetical_ case they’re discussing.

They almost get there, too, and he’d have been intrigued to hear an argument for that scenario because he’d intended the case to be a relatively cut-and-dry initial example, but George thinks this kid might have actually managed to change his mind if not for the heated debate he gets into with his classmate; polished and clearly moneyed and familiar-looking, speaking dismissively and condescendingly and in a way obviously designed to incite a display of temper from the kid in order to derail and overshadow his _admittedly interesting_ reasoning.

It must be a common occurrence, because not even Henry, half-watching from his desk to one side, bats much of an eye, just sighs _Mister Hamilton, please mind your language,_ when the provocation hits home rather rapidly a few minutes later when the agitator starts claiming outright untruths in his argument and the outrage and the inability to combat this beyond _that’s complete bullshit_ and _you fucking liar_ melts the kid down so spectacularly that he’s obviously still shaking with his rage when they all file out. George watches him fall into step a few feet behind the tall, smug-looking boy that by now he’s recognized and placed as the grandson of a former senator George had had in his courtroom not four years prior, a rather scandalous family affair that hadn’t made the papers or diminished the family’s influence, especially not to the point where this kid, _Hamilton,_ is ever going to get away with beating the shit out of the other boy with his education intact.

George’s career, hell, his entire disposition is rooted in his ability to remain unbiased and to assess information only as it pertains to the letter of the law, but that doesn’t mean he’s not capable of recognizing Hamilton’s too-scuffed-up sneakers and the too-thin consistency of his winter wear and the burning vengeance in his expression, drawing on his experience and making a few assumptions about the kid’s background and the likelihood of him carrying out the threat written all over his face.

He’s not sure what it is that makes him step out after them, except he really does think this kid could maybe have convinced him to dismiss an _open-and-shut case,_ brimming with so much promise that he can’t bring himself to let it go to waste, can’t bring himself to let the kid put a bullet in his own potential and ruin himself just for the opportunity to vent his frustration with his fists.

It’s obvious that’s his intention, too, because he’s so intently focused on his target that he yelps in surprise when George claps a heavy hand over his shoulder, flinches and stutters before he shrugs out from under it with a glare rounded on George himself this time and a flat, _gee thanks_ when George compliments his understanding of the content. It’s sarcastic enough that George shakes his head and he flicks a gaze at Pickering Jr’s retreating back disappearing into the crowd, deems the situation defused enough that he can offer a flat look of his own.

“Have you ever played chess, Mister Hamilton?”

The kid looks at him like George has asked if he’s ever stuck his hand into a beehive, or maybe a pool of his own vomit. “Uh, _no?”_

“Perhaps you should,” George replies, because it’s the best metaphor he can come up with on the fly, always goes back to the game, to a shy, teenaged Martha sat opposite him as they awkwardly flirted their way through years of chess club, because it’s given him everything he’s ever wanted or needed and if he can pass even some of that theory on here he’ll try. “You can’t flip the board and expect anyone to take you seriously. You have to play the game to actually _win._ ”

“ _Great,_ ” the kid snorts. “Stellar advice, there. And how the fuck is some monotonous bullshit like that going to help me when someone’s _fucking lying their ass off-_ ”

“By giving you the patience to pick apart the intricacies of that lie without discrediting your entire position with a _lost temper,_ young man,” George sighs, and Hamilton looks belligerently skeptical. George regards him steadily and makes a call. “Here, it’s after one. There’s a sandwich place around the corner that does a BLT to die for. Give me half an hour and I’ll show you how to do that.”

As he absolutely expects, the kid takes a step back, then another, and flicks a wary glance up and down him before settling on his left hand and he narrows his eyes. “Your wife know you go trawling around colleges tryin’ to pick up poor impressionable teenagers?” He scoffs. “Besides, I already ate, before.”

“Oh really,” George says flatly. “What did you have?”

Hamilton’s eyebrows crease together in the center as he frowns in confusion. “Uh…a sandwich?” he says, and offers the name of a place with a wrinkled nose when George follows up with _where from._

“That takeout place three blocks up?” George persists, and when the kid nods, he can’t help smile. “That takeout place that doesn’t open until twelve?”

They’ve been in that classroom since eleven forty-five and the kid knows it, flushes in angry embarrassment and George raises a deliberate eyebrow as he passes on the lesson he’d intended to. Granted, most defendants are usually better liars than this kid, but the point is solid and he makes it as obviously as he can without hammering that nail home.

“The devil’s in the detail, Mister Hamilton. It always is. I find it advisable to say nothing at all than to commit to a lie. No matter how intricate, they are always so easily disproved. Enough detail and it will always fall apart in the end. When it comes to a court of law, or the floor of a debate hall, you don’t even have to prove yourself right, if you can prove a liar wrong.”

George doesn’t force him to defend his lie, or even acknowledge it, he’s demonstrated what he intended well enough, and if anyone’s now in danger of getting one of those clenched fists to the face it’s George himself and thankfully not a trust fund kid that will see to squashing Hamilton’s bright future, and so he leaves the kid to chew the inside of his mouth and ruminate on it.

~~~

A week later - and George still has no damn idea how the kid got a hold of his personal email address but he does - he curiously opens what turns out to be a twelve-page rationale calling for a dismissal with prejudice in regards to his _hypothetical_ case file, ridiculously entitled _Intrinsically flawed; on why this poorly-compiled trash pile of circumstantial evidence deserves to be burned._

George was right. He _is_ convinced.

Two months after his guest talk Henry calls and asks if he’s still bored. The lecture series went so well he invites George to participate in a new mentoring scheme he’s launching.

George says yes, with the non-negotiable stipulation that he gets to choose the student.

~~~

Alexander is _awful_ at chess.

Not for lack of intelligence, because Alexander is possibly the brightest nineteen-year-old he’s ever come across; is _absolutely_ smart enough to grasp the intricacies, understands his way around the strategy without issue and yet he’s _horrifically_ impatient; rushes through the moves like he’s trying to win a race rather than a war game, never gives himself time to plan it through even though afterward, given a few moments, he can pinpoint exactly where he went wrong and how he could have countered differently if he’d not sped ahead, and because of that impatience he hardly ever _finishes_ a damn game. He’s terrible at losing, and the moment he realizes he’s inevitably going to it’s like he already has, he immediately drops all interest, or resigns and refuses to see it through, no matter how many times George tries to tell him he’ll learn something from it.

He’d been right about something else too; Alexander _is_ a board-flipper, though granted, that’s more infrequent, frustration boiling over until the pawns are rolling across the floor and he’s red-faced and frozen and stuttering almost-apologies and Martha is calling brightly through from the kitchen that maybe they should stop for today, come and have a drink, have a snack and _Alexander dear, do you like pie?_

The first time Alexander ever wins he says _wait,_ _you didn't do that on purpose, right?_ and then smiles bright and wide enough that George sees almost all of his teeth. 

In spite of, or maybe _because_ of those more private moments, Alexander becomes a somewhat of a recurring fixture in their home over the following year, and George isn’t sure when the line blurs or whether his mentorship is really _meant_ to include weekly Sunday dinners or taking an interest in each and every one of Alexander’s papers but somewhere in between Alexander’s now good-natured, grinning eyerolls and the sight of that unadulterated _delight_ regularly on his Martha’s face at having the three of them around a dining table George finds himself not giving a single damn. He doesn’t even notice at first when that period has meant to have elapsed. It’s not until after Alexander swings by one day with an unusually skittish, wary look on his face and a query about his post-graduation plans on his lips that George opens his email to a _thank you for your time_ from Henry sent three days prior that he wonders if Alexander had half expected to be turned away.

George calls him that same evening to ask after his latest economics paper, to check whether he’d be amenable to ordering pizza at the weekend instead of the meatloaf Martha has decided she doesn’t want to make, and to answer the question of his potential future as best he can, instead.

He’d planned on politics, George can see that well enough, in his major, in his classes, in the way he throws himself almost bodily into the subject, but even as Alexander clenches his jaw and asks George’s honest opinion they both know he’s becoming disenchanted, and that it’s not where he’s suited. He’s a lawyer; there’s no doubt about it, in the way he thinks, in how he structures his arguments, in his tenacity, in that driving, unending desire to _win._ He’s a lawyer, and George tells him so, and something in his chest burns like pride and fondness when he contrasts the following _okay, thank you sir_ with that sarcastic, snorting _stellar advice there_ from twelve months ago, even as he tamps down relief, because politics would eat Alexander alive.

Alexander is rough and turbulent in a way that George is deeply certain would ruin him in a political arena given a matter of time. He’s far too hotheaded for it; impetuous and stubborn to a fault, and despite the fact that the verve and life sparking behind his eyes marks his passion and his strength, there’s also an edge to it that George would be a fool not to think masks that part of him that would definitely bloody his knuckles and god knows what else to settle any argument he couldn’t talk his way into winning. As it is, he already sports enough split lips or bruises along his jaw, eyes bright in a way that says he doesn’t shy away from a fight, no matter how many times George cautions him to take care of himself.

The more he thinks about it, the more he becomes determined to ensure Alexander definitely doesn’t set himself up for self-destruction, take a path down which he’ll never survive, let alone thrive, the metaphorical clap to the shoulder he’d given over a year ago echoing in his thoughts as he picks up the phone and calls in a favor, gets Alexander shortlisted to be sponsored through law school and feels no shame at setting the blame squarely on the excuse of _fulfilling his duties as a mentor_ when Alexander predictably shows up argumentative and contrary and hiding his discomfort behind ingratitude.

He wavers and falters, because they both know George is lying, because it hasn’t really been a _mentorship_ since the first time Alexander had fallen dead asleep, wiped out and peaceful on the couch in George’s study and he’d carefully brought the kid to a guest room instead of sending him home, or maybe even before that, but he _wants_ it, George can see that in his face, and so even though Alexander knows damn well how to, now, he doesn’t pick the lie apart.

Instead, he lets it be, lets them settle into something new, and when George pats his shoulder and tells him _you’re going to be a great lawyer, son_ he nods, determined, and says _yessir_ like it’s an order and not a certainty. 

~~~

It’s too easy, sometimes, to pretend Alexander is theirs; he can see that Martha does it in the way that she fusses, in the way that she’ll send him on his way each week with more food than is strictly leftovers, and in how she _accidentally_ has a clumsy moment and spills on the kid’s old, worn winter jacket and fishes him out a thicker, better one in apology from a cupboard upstairs to go home in that she claims is a relic of George’s but that he knows damn well he saw her bring home brand new and cut the tags off that morning before Alexander came over.

George lets her have it, and so does Alexander, even though it surely stretches the bounds of belief when she claims their washing machine tore up his old jacket the next time he’s over and insists he keeps the replacement instead. He’s privately maybe a little glad that they never had to see Alexander through rocky teenage years, because George has seen enough troubled teenagers to know he’d have been a goddamn nightmare. Not the neighborhood-pets-going-missing variety, but surely in the arson-and-shoplifting for excitement and attention kind of way.

All the same he can’t help note the way Alexander almost-exclusively calls him _sir,_ now, and selectively chooses to hear it as less in authoritarian respect and more in the same way that George had always addressed his own father. 

Alexander is an open book but he also isn’t. Those rough, textbook-case edges are obvious, but it’s not clear that he returns their sentiment until George is back to spending his days in a courtroom and Alexander is a quarter way through grad school and the phone rings loud and shrill and insistent in the middle of the night; a nurse on the other end calling to tell him in a firmly gentle tone that his kid is unconscious in the emergency room, that they’d found Alexander’s name in his wallet and that his medical records list George as an emergency contact. 

When he gets there, George hears Alexander before he sees him, obviously roused in the time George had gotten dressed blindly in the dark, choking on his concern, and even the scratchy, pained, hoarseness of his voice echoing down the corridor as he snaps out _hey hey hey, back up, back the fuck up, no, I don’t need that, fucking ow-_ doesn’t temper the relief that floods through him because if Alexander is cursing, he’s alright, and cuss he _does,_ pale and wide-eyed under a smear of red across his forehead and something between guilt, humiliation and fury warring over his face when George rounds the corner.

“Sir- oh _motherfucker,_ you _didn’t._ ” He glares at the nearest nurse like she’s singlehandedly responsible for the consequences of calling a contact _he’s_ listed on his own records, and George has to step close and press him back into the bed when he goes to fling himself out of it. “No, look sir, fuck, I can’t believe they fucking called you, I’m _fine,_ shit, that’s not what I-”

He doesn’t _look_ fine, a slight slur to his words as he argues that George doesn’t _need_ to pull up a chair and stake out his spot for the rest of the evening, even though that’s exactly what he does, because Alexander sways alarmingly toward him even as he scowls, temple caked in blood and holding his right arm awkward and protective over his chest in a way that George can’t tell which one is the vulnerable part, and he doesn’t get a straight answer when he asks, either. It’s not until the doctor comes around a little while later that George finds out that it’s both; broken arm _and_ several ribs, and most assuredly a concussion considering that Alexander finally admits that he can’t - or won’t - remember how he ended up alone at the bottom of a flight of stairs beyond a vague recollection of leaving a bar with a young man whose name he didn’t ask, but that he distinctly recalls had a motorbike because _that sounded like fun_ and George is utterly, breathtakingly furious with him. 

“Didn’t mean f’them to call you,” Alexander mumbles, sleepy and resigned and apologetic like he thinks _that’s_ why George is silent and fuming - not because he'd _gotten onto the back of a motorcycle with a drunk stranger_ \- much later, when they’ve patched up his head wound and he’s worn out and disoriented enough to close his eyes and let George wipe carefully at the remaining red staining the side of his face. “Didn’t think- I’ll change it. Jus’ wanted somebody t’let you know if I ever turned up dead-”

“You _won’t_ change it,” George rebuffs gruffly, swallows down the thing that feels like a fist around his throat at the thought of Alexander cold and pale on a slab in a morgue somewhere, just another potential crime scene photo that nobody would even bother to _tell_ George about until they missed his snarky, spitfire wit over dinner and actively went looking for him-

He pauses and waits long enough that Alexander eventually blinks _yessir_ without properly meeting his gaze, and George has to wonder how often he contemplates the technicalities of his own demise for that to even have been a consideration. “-and you’ll stay with us until these come off.”

Alexander blanches and shakes his head when George gestures to the cast on his arm and the wrap around his ribs, but he puts his foot firmly down, because the pasty, sweaty sheen to his skin makes him look even more washed out and _young_ and George knows damn well if he sends Alexander on his way with an instruction to call them if he needs them, that he never will, even when he inevitably does. 

“M’fine. I swear- _complètement inutile, sur-réagissant, je n'ai pas besoin de ça-_ ” Alexander grits out, eyes hazy, and George raises a hand to stave off the argument, because he _isn’t,_ because he’s _slurring in French._ George will save the lecture for now, for until he’s had a real night’s rest because he's not a monster, but by god there will _be_ a lecture, because George _needs_ him to give at least somewhat of a damn about himself, about keeping himself safe. George needs him to at least _think_ before he acts, because Alexander would probably fight to the death if he needed to but it's really his own damn choices that he needs protecting from, and it worries George beyond measure that he's not always going to be around to do that, that one day _it sounded like fun_ is going to be the death of him. 

“Martha’s losing her mind worried about you,” George overrules firmly, and it’s true, he stepped out to speak to her not an hour ago while they put Alexander’s arm in the cast and knows she’s already flitting about making up a bed for him to calm her nerves, but it’s also a play, because it’s obvious there’s a raw nerve hidden there surrounding Alexander’s mother that George would never ask him to speak about but isn’t above playing on, just this once, to save him from his own damn stubbornness. “-just come for a few weeks until you’ve healed a bit, to spare her stress.”

Instead of six weeks, Alexander lives with them for five months, and even when he eventually leaves, he doesn’t really.

Until he does, that is.

~~~

“What the _hell_ is that little bastard playing at, George?” Mercer rails at him down the phone, and George winces. “Does he know something that I don’t?”

It’s been an unnervingly common proposition recently, since the first time someone had seen Alexander out to dinner with _Thomas Jefferson,_ and it’s a testament to Alexander’s exemplary legal reputation that at first George had heard some in the DA’s office actually _questioning_ the underlying, frustratingly unprovable fundamental _truth_ of Jefferson’s utter corruption based purely on the news of his association with Alexander.

It's ridiculous, of course; Jefferson is as dirty as they come. George isn't _meant_ to be prejudiced, and he can recognize that, _by law,_ Jefferson's hands are begrudgingly clean, but they all know perfectly well that _Jefferson_ is one of those sickening scenarios in which the legal system falls depressingly, horribly short; the law bent and twisted around to _protect_ the perpetrators instead of delivering justice, at least when wielded by brilliant minds like Aaron Burr's.

Like Alexander's. 

Alexander, who'd shown up two days ago at the precinct downtown and unceremoniously bumped the mafia boss out of a holding cell with more than a few four-letter words and a lawsuit threat or two and now Mercer's lot are all finally wondering what exactly it _was_ that had Alexander declaring a conflict of interest in the Adams case a few months ago, all of them now looking a little more closely. Though George hadn’t been required to disclose the details of that declaration at the time, with Alexander _actively_ now working in defense of the man and Angelica Schuyler telling anyone who’ll stop and listen that she’s convinced they’re sleeping together, the facts of the matter are coming together into water cooler gossip for the ages; the relentless, unbeatable darling of the DA’s office is somehow in possession of proof of Thomas Jefferson’s unfathomable _innocence,_ or he’s being sordidly blackmailed into _working_ for the mobster against his will, or he’s screwing his way into information half the prosecutors in the city would auction their right testicle for-

As much as George almost _wants_ to tell himself that Alexander is pulling the mother of all gambits; that he’s taken that ceaseless drive of his to a twisted level, sacrificing all of his pieces and his dignity for a shot at a checkmate that will secure his career for decades, he knows that isn’t what’s happening. Alexander is certainly smart enough to orchestrate such a strategy, but despite George’s best efforts he's a patzer and he’d never learned the kind of patience that would require, and besides, George has known since that initial phone call that the reality of the first time Alexander had gone to bed with the man had certainly consisted of a hell of a lot less _forethought_ on Alexander's part, because he'd still sounded thrilled and animated even as he'd called, and it had surely just _sounded like fun at the time_ and damn the consequences.

It hadn't been until two months ago when the mutterings had really begun that George had even realized there'd _been_ a second time, or that it had continued, and he'd fixed him a serious look the next time Alexander had been secured away in George's office looking over a case file for him and asked _Thomas Jefferson, Alexander. Are you sure you know what you're doing?_

“ _Yes._ I- He-” Alexander had said, hesitating, met his gaze, eyes bright and electric and already utterly swept up in his own excitement, and dammit, George really shouldn’t have been as surprised as he had been; after a flirtation with the precincts bomb disposal expert and a brief dalliance with an engineer developing new supercars - that George is _certain_ Alexander only entertained for as long as he did because the young man would let him drive the monstrocities in exchange for- well. George doesn't really want to know exactly what for, but he can guess just fine - it seems almost glaringly obvious that Alexander had always been headed toward something like this and George had reluctantly realized all he could really do was hope that Alexander would burn himself out on it before he did any real damage to his career, or his life, or _himself_.

He'd thought even then, though, with a sinking feeling, that the damage may already have been done, because Alexander had almost seemed to _flounder_ for the right words to explain the affair, to explain _Jefferson._ George had half expected him to say _he's very smart,_ because Jefferson undeniably is and Alexander had always been a little weak for intelligence, or maybe just _I like him_ , because he regrettably, obviously _did._ But he clearly hadn't been able to bring himself to settle on something so honest, instead had just shrugged and smiled. "-he plays _chess_."

“Well alright then,” George had replied, let it end there, even though he didn't understand, because what else had there been to say beyond asking _which piece are you?_

He still doesn’t know, and he waves Mercer off the phone with a denial and a sinking feeling, and an _I have no idea, Hugh,_ because he honestly _doesn’t_ have any idea what Alexander is doing with Jefferson. Neither he nor Alexander have breathed Jefferson’s name since that exchange, because there’s nothing much more to say on the topic and he's well aware that it's much safer for the both of them - _and likely for Jefferson, but he's not particularly invested in what's safe for Jefferson -_ not to discuss it further, and because if they do, George might get an answer to that question and he's not sure he wants that.

If Alexander is a castle, a knight; a willing, complicit ally for Jefferson to enjoy corrupting then the wolves snapping at his heels will take the first opportunity they can to bury Alexander alive and George won't be able to protect him from that.

But if Alexander is nothing but an easy, sacrificial, disposable pawn to be _thrown_ to those wolves when it suits him, George will bury Jefferson alive himself.

~~~

He doesn’t actually get that answer for a while, but when he does it comes with another ringing phone. It’s deceptive, because the light is bright outside and there are years in between, a different nurse, a different time of day but it’s the same unforgettable, choking, gut-punched feeling at Alexander’s name in amongst words that don’t make sense in this context; _gunshot wound, emergency, surgery._

It takes him far too long to get down there, wringing his hands and muttering under his breath and all the while with Alexander’s _thought you should know if I turned up dead_ too-loud in his ears as he watches the hand tick away on his watch, stuck in lunchtime traffic and praying that that isn’t what he’s heading toward.

George has seen Thomas Jefferson before; though granted it was a few years ago now as a fresh-faced, even-tempered defendant in his courtroom, smug that Mercer couldn’t pin him down for the methodical, drawn-out _execution_ of a host of King’s associates, but for some reason he can’t pinpoint, he’s not expecting to see him _here._ It’s maybe because he’s been doing his best to pretend Jefferson doesn’t exist, or because if he’s honest with himself he’s already convinced that Jefferson’s somehow, _someway_ responsible for this and so of course he’d not have the _gall_ to be here, except he _is._ He’s hunched over in his seat and staring blankly at his hands and there’s a nauseating moment where George realizes, too-slowly like time has frozen, that the crimson soaked all the way up his shirt, dark and dried on his hands has come from the _inside of his kid,_ too much, _far too much_ of Alexander’s blood smeared across his face and he’s changed direction away from the reception desk before he’s even registered it, because Jefferson’s _done this,_ somehow, he doesn’t care _how,_ he just _knows,_ and George doesn’t give a damn about the consequences, about _patience_ and _restraint_ , or that he’ll probably be made to _pay_ for it, he’s going to-

Except Jefferson looks up as he approaches and it pulls George up short and sharp because his eyes are bleak and red and he snaps, voice raspy and cracked before George can even speak, and Christ, there’s even _blood_ in his _hair._ “Whatever the hell you’re going to say, do it _after_ you find out what the fuck is going on with him. They won’t _tell me anything_ -”

It takes the wind right out of his sails, and even as he’s stood there his eyes fall on Jefferson’s jacket on the chair by his side; ripped and balled up and clearly not the same color it had started the day, dark and damp and rusty. George feels sick just looking at it and he can’t tear his gaze away or find it in himself to come up with a response, because he hadn’t actually intended to _say_ anything to the man. Ever.

And so he _doesn’t_ say anything. Dark, accusatory looks but not a single word for the entire rest of the wait for Alexander’s surgery to finish, because if he lets himself then those words will be angry and condemning and full of blame, because they’ll be things he reluctantly, rationally knows he’ll regret when he inevitably has to step back and look at this critically, when Alexander isn’t maybe bleeding out on an operating room table. 

Because they’ll be things Alexander might not forgive him for saying. Even if they're true.

He doesn’t speak to Jefferson when someone comes to give him a sparse update that consists of things like _stable but still critical_ while George swallows down bile around his questions and Jefferson stares at the floor and gives no indication he’s even listening beyond the white-knucled grip he has on his own knees, or when another doctor comes later to tell him that Alexander is out of surgery, that he’s recovering, that he’ll _be okay._ George doesn’t speak to him when it looks like all the air _whooshes_ out of the guy at once, head drooping and curling in on himself, deflating like a balloon with a pin stuck in it as he makes a noise that almost sounds like that, too.

Maybe less because he’s angry, then, and more because sitting here silently blaming Jefferson is the only thing keeping him from feeling as defeated as Jefferson looks. He knows he’s being deliberately unfair, now, because it’s obvious Alexander is no _pawn,_ but then his eyes catch on a section of Jefferson’s curls, gelled together in a clump of Alexander’s blood, and he tamps down the blooming empathy in favor of calling Martha. 

George doesn’t even speak to him during the day or so that follows, taking turns sitting vigil by Alexander’s bedside, because he looks so damn _small,_ smaller than he’s ever looked, even as a scrawny, underfed little waif, unmoving and pale; his tan skin suddenly so similar to the off-white shade of the sheets that for a moment the first time George sees him his heart stops and he’s convinced Alexander _is_ laying on a slab and not in a private room until he blinks the image away. 

It’s George’s turn, when Alexander finally stirs, and he thinks Jefferson’s maybe off taking a call from Madison; if Jefferson’s a chess player then Madison’s surely his right-hand bishop, influential and reliable and trusted and because of that he can’t help wonder if Madison is out serving their own brand of justice. George has been around the block long enough to be able to make that assumption, at least, and he’s probably not supposed to half hope, darkly, that Madison has more to go on than what George had overheard Jefferson coolly relaying to a visiting detective; that he had _no fucking idea what happened,_ that one minute he’d been in a business meeting and the next, Alexander was _shot and bloody in his arms-_

His instincts had told him it had rung true, undeniable honesty in the exhaustion in Jefferson’s voice, but George is still glad it's him sat there, when Alexander’s fingers flex once and then twice, insistently against his palm, his own blood caked and dried under his bitten-down nails where everybody who comes in here has been so preoccupied with keeping him alive to bother to clean them up, and when George leans over him to check his twitching face he tries not to give a damn that the first, discernible thing he can pick out of Alexander’s mumbling is Jefferson’s name. 

“ _Je ne, je ne peux pas…_ ” Alexander mutters, as his eyes flutter open, glazed and disoriented and something finally uncoils from around George’s chest. “Thomas-”

“Alexander, son, you with me?” George says, moves his hand from Alexander’s face to his shoulder before he registers the presence of it, because he’s known this kid long enough to know that the affection won’t be appreciated. Alexander blinks, and his eyes focus a little more, and he corrects himself with some considerable effort, mumbles out _Si_ _r? Sir, what-_ and George murmurs a confirmation. “You’re alright. _You’re alright._ Take it steady. Do you remember what happened?”

“I w’s- I- _Thomas,_ fuck, _fuck-_ ” Alexander repeats, louder and seemingly startling himself, as he shakes his head like he’s trying to reorder his thoughts into something that makes sense, and George has to hold him down firmly when makes a move to almost wrench himself up and out of bed because the second he does, what little color he has drains from his face and he makes a noise like he’s been gutted, hand flying to his middle reflexively. “I can’t- _motherfuck-_ s’he _alright?_ Is he-”

“He’s fine,” George insists, words bitter in his mouth but if it’s what Alexander needs to hear to stop _fighting,_ he’ll say it until he’s hoarse. “Jefferson’s fine, son, he’s right outside. Please just take a deep-”

“He- he-” Alexander pants, fingers curling into a fist in the gown over his chest as he scans George’s face for any sign that he's merely being humored, until he exhales and slumps back with a moan of pain, face verging on desperate. “S’here?”

He’s not even asked about himself, and George sighs inwardly, even as he nods. He hasn’t spared even a thought to ask about the stitched-up hole in his gut. It’s seemingly irrelevant, the fact that he’s lying in a hospital bed, in the face of hearing about Jefferson, and it’s clear that he’s not going to settle until he’s laid eyes on the man for himself.

Jefferson’s still on the phone when George approaches him, glances up and then back down again and doesn’t hang up, obviously doesn’t expect much from him other than for him to sit down and pull his own phone out, maybe update Martha, call the office, continue the weirdly peaceful, silent trade-off they’ve been dancing through. It’s working, because really, George doesn’t much know what the hell he’d say to the man even if he _wanted_ to speak to him, because the last time he’d addressed the guy was when he’d had to let the shit go scot free those four or so years ago, and their only common ground is two corridors down the hall; a sore subject at the moment. Even if it wasn't, he'd not want to talk to Jefferson about Alexander, because he’s watched Jefferson slowly lose his shit over the last thirty hours, and he’s not blind enough, or angry enough, now, to not have an answer to his earlier question, because George hardly even gets through _he’s awake,_ definitely doesn’t have time for _he asked for you_ before Jefferson’s eyes flash and he’s stridden determinedly past him, because it only takes a quiet glance through the open hospital room door a minute later after George has gone and called for a doctor, one look at gentle, reverent, shaking fingertips tracing over pale cheeks and carding through tangled hair to confirm it for him.

He doesn’t need to see the wobble in the line of Jefferson’s shoulders or hear the wet, thick-sounding snort of Alexander’s as he says _Jesus Christ, are you fucking crying, you pussy,_ clearly just aiming to draw the following, hoarse laugh that sounds like it comes from somewhere far too deep in Jefferson’s chest. He doesn't need it, but it solidifies the answer all the same.

If Jefferson’s a chess man, Alexander is the _Queen._

George wonders if that’s supposed to make him feel better, or worse.

~~~

“He’s an asshole,” Alexander dismisses, biting his lip as three _clacks_ accompany a knight across the board. He's never been able to move the pieces to their intended position without unconciously touching all of the squares along the journey and it’s always made George smile, because for all his posturing, it's charmingly childlike of him. “-and it’s not _my_ fault he keeps showing up at inopportune moments. I got fucking _shot,_ you know.”

It’s weak, and he has the grace to flush a little and avert his gaze when George raises an eyebrow. He’s avoiding the detective investigating his shooting, but he’ll actually have to answer the man’s questions eventually because there’s only so many times he can fall _miraculously_ into a pained slumber the minute the cops come knocking. 

“Besides, he’s an idiot. He thinks _Thomas_ did it,” Alexander grumbles sourly under his breath, and George avoids looking him in the eye as he captures his second castle. 

“You _did_ say you didn’t remember anything,” he cautions Alexander lightly, even though he’s near enough certain Jefferson definitely _didn’t_ shoot Alexander, but he still doesn’t know exactly what _did_ happen, and he’ll eat his own tie if it didn’t have _something_ to do with Jefferson, so he’s not feeling particularly charitable on the topic. Besides, if Alexander’s going to lie about not remembering he’s going to need to do a much better job of it; they’ve covered the legal risks of lying _so many times_ at this point that George doesn't even point them out again. “-for all you know, he _could_ have done it. Of course they’re going to look at him, Alexander. It’s only logical of them to be concerned for your continued safety around him; you could still be in danger. You could have been hit as part of some retribution or even as a _threat-_ ”

Alexander rolls his eyes.

“ _They’re_ concerned for my safety? I’m not in any _danger,_ they weren’t _aiming_ for _me,_ I just jumped in the fucking way-” he snaps out, running a hand through his hair in frustration and then pales impressively as he backtracks. “-that’s inadmissible. That’s not- I’ll have the nurses testify that I’m off my damn face on so much shit that I don’t know what I’m-”

George has to put a hand on his wrist to stop him reaching for the morphine button just to double down on his threat, to drug himself to the gills to try and prevent the statement being used in any potential legal capacity and he curses inwardly, because he'd _willingly_ put himself in danger, and because it’s typical, George thinks, it’s so damn typical _Alexander,_ that he’s finally found that there _is_ something he gives enough of a damn about to protect, to lie for, or _die_ for and of course it’s not himself. 

It’s fucking _Jefferson._

In the diciest games, even the Queen is a shield, if the King needs one. He can always promote another if necessary.

George wants to _shake_ him. 

“ _What’s_ inadmissible, did you say something?” he says instead, intent and careful, like he could ever forget that Alexander apparently _stepped in front of a damn bullet_ for a guy who’s probably got more kills to his name than forgettable notches in his bedpost. He has to remind himself forcibly that by the letter of the law, in _the only way that really matters,_ Thomas Jefferson is an innocent man, and that all George can do now is hope that he _remains_ that way, or at least until Alexander ideally comes to his senses, lest he be willingly dragged down with him. “I must have missed it.”

“Yeah. I- no, I didn't. I didn't say anything.” Alexander blinks, nods, but he’s still tense, still wary and too-defensive, probably still chastising himself for the slip, and he goes to slide out of the bed, mumbles _bathroom,_ like he’s not just trying to get away from George and gather his game face, like he thinks he _needs_ it, and when George offers his arm, his hand, he’s rebuffed. “I’m _fine,_ I don’t _need_ help-”

George steps in closer, and Alexander takes a wobbly step aside. “Son, you had major surgery _five days ago-_ ” 

“I can _do_ it,” he insists, even as he sways and wavers and almost stumbles. “Christ, I’m not a fucking-”

George assumes that sentence would have ended with _invalid_ or _weakling_ or, knowing Alexander, more likely _pussy,_ but he doesn’t ever find out what Alexander thinks he _isn’t,_ because he takes one, then two steps before wincing and George can almost _see_ him lose his strength in a matter of seconds, knees going out from under him and arms flailing, catching the bed table and sending the game flying as he doubles over, panting and pained. Luckily George is ready for him, saw it coming a mile off, because he’s there in a second, has Alexander safely by one armpit and around his waist before he goes all the way down, even as the board _cracks_ and splits as one corner hits the floor and breaks away and pieces scatter and skitter away under the bed.

“I was losing anyway,” Alexander mutters a while later, slumped back on the bed, staring blankly at a pawn rolled across the room and now stuck in a dusty corner. George nods silently, because he was. Alexander swallows thickly and draws a heavy breath, pulls his hand away from his stomach and eyes the smudges of red coloring the gown. “I think some of my stitches tore.”

When George fetches a doctor to see to restitching his wound, Alexander taps at the handle at the side of the bed repetetively, worries his lip before asking _will you stay while they do it, please?_

It’s not until later, when he finally leaves and spots Jefferson on his way out, ramrod straight at a table in the cafeteria, takeaway cup and notebook in front of him, looking more put together than he has in days, unless George cares to notice the increasing, hollow tightness around his eyes, that he wonders if Alexander had actually wanted _George_ with him, or whether he’d just wanted Jefferson to stay away for long enough that he’d not have to admit that he’d hurt himself, can imagine Alexander trying the same damn thing again in an hour's time and not bothering to mention the slip at all.

The other man looks up sharply, wary and flicking a glance back at the corridor leading to Alexander's room when George sinks down into the seat opposite him and sighs. “Don’t let him get up by himself. He just tore his stitches trying.”

Jefferson’s mouth twitches up slightly into a dry smile even as his eyes get a little more sad. “Of course he did,” he murmurs.

George grunts in wry agreement and they sit in silence for a while.

~~~

Two months after his shooting, over dinner, Alexander clears his throat and tells them with a shrug that he’s moved in with Jefferson. _Moved_ in. Not _moving,_ and the fact that he’d waited until after he’s done it to say so tells George how unwanted his opinion on the matter is.

So he keeps it to himself and tries not to think about how he’ll be able to hear the sound of Alexander’s prosecution career shattering from halfway across the city once Mercer catches wind of this.

Martha sends Alexander home with a bottle of celebratory champagne. Alexander rolls his eyes, but grins and takes it.

~~~

George is conflicted.

He’s been conflicted for three days, since Mercer's newest protégé had come in to give him some case files and included one he _obviously_ hadn't meant to. The kid's a little fresh, a little green, and his cases are mostly - as Alexander has previously politely put it - _fucking garbage,_ and so it had taken him a while to make his way through them and crack open the one on the bottom but it had been obvious from the get-go that it hadn't been _his_ case, that the young man had only been tying up loose ends on it and gotten it confused with his others, because it had _Angelica Schuyler_ written all over it. 

She'd been working on this housefire for a few months now and it seemed she'd finally thought she could pin the death on Jefferson. George hadn't particularly cared about that - he had no doubt that Jefferson would somehow weasel his way out of the charge - her case wasn't _that_ airtight, but it did outline a _very_ clear intention to subpoena Alexander to testify as to the events of the weekend in question _._

Alexander, being _forced_ onto the stand.

Against Jefferson.

George had dropped that file back off on the kid's desk five minutes later, because there'd been no way he was meant to have seen it. As it is it's well known that there's enough conflict of interest there that George has never tried one of Alexander's cases and Hugh's a stickler. There's no way he'd want George knowing he's planning on calling Alexander up. George would gamble the deeds to his house that this case isn't even _about_ Jefferson, for Mercer.

It's about Alexander. 

Mercer surely wants to call Alexander's bluff, to force his hand and push the situation to a head, one way or another. To him, either Alexander is playing a long game with Jefferson or he isn't and putting him on the stand will clear that up either way. If he _is,_ he'll respect the letter of the law, step up and deliver what he knows, condemn Jefferson and then Mercer's lead attack dog can finally stop being known as Jefferson's favorite squeeze. If he isn't, if he's _Jefferson's_ -

Well, if he's Jefferson's he'll plead the fifth or lie on the stand. If he takes the fifth, he may as well be admitting his own guilt, his career basically forfeit for all the trust he'll have in the DA's office afterward, and if he lies, George would bet Mercer already has something he's just _waiting_ for Alexander to try to deny so he can land him with perjury.

And so George is conflicted. Because he can't protect Alexander from Jefferson. Alexander doesn't _want_ to be protected from Jefferson. But George _can_ prevent him from losing his shit and committing perjury. 

Because George can imagine quite well that he would. He's so damn hotheaded and defensive of Jefferson that he absolutely would. He jumped in front of a damn bullet for the man, George honestly can't imagine a scenario in which Alexander _doesn't_ lose track of his mouth on the stand, frustrated and cocky and screw himself into self-incrimination. All it would take is one little detail.

Unless he doesn't testify. There's a scenario in which he _doesn't_ testify. In which George can keep him from having to.

But to do so means to put the final nail in that coffin. To do so means to get dangerously close to crossing a line he's only been skirting, being plausibly blind and giving Alexander the opportunity to take whatever he can to protect himself. George doesn't even know if he _does_ take those chances, and that's the difference here, George would _know_ that he'd meddled. To step in and ensure Alexander doesn't have to take the stand means to sacrifice his hopes that Alexander could still come out of this thing tarnished with nothing but a dint in his reputation, however faint that hope already is. To protect him from perjuring himself in a legal capacity means tying a bow around him and sending him off to Jefferson with smile and a wave.

Protecting Alexander from himself is not a responsibility that was ever really George’s.

That doesn’t mean he doesn't do it.

The next time Alexander joins he and Martha for dinner he waits until they’re alone with glasses full of amber between them in the study before he smiles as casually as he can, wheedles the conversation around to Alexander’s future; _honestly, son, one day you’re going to need to slow down. Maybe when you’ve settled down and tied the knot. Any idea when that might be?_

Alexander is not stupid. He never has been, and George can’t help but be proud that there’s barely a flash of confused, pursed lips before he grasps why George may have made such an out-of-character statement, an undeniable _suggestion,_ before he smiles and says _now that you mention it,_ though his eyes are steely and serious as he processes the idea that someone is likely attempting to use him against Jefferson in some capacity.

When he leaves, Alexander turns their handshake into a rare hug and George must be in a maudlin mood because the novelty of it feels like an ending as much as a _thank you,_ as he fastens that metaphorical ribbon around him and sends him on his way. 

He almost wants to make sure Alexander knows he couldn’t give less of a damn about Jefferson. He’s not protecting _Jefferson,_ but he decides against clarifying, leaves it be, because this way he's almost deniable, and because he doesn't think it matters because he thinks Alexander probably doesn’t see much of a difference, anyway.

~~~

The next time he sees Alexander there’s an elegant, ruby-set ring snug on his left hand as he rubs the back of his neck ruefully but looks George defiantly in the eye and tells him they eloped, and two weeks after that when he’s finally called up he invokes his spousal privilege to refuse to testify in any case against his _husband._

Mercer causes some commotion about whether the privilege even applies, whether it’s been done to directly circumvent the law but he can’t prove Alexander had any prior knowledge of the upcoming case, and it appears that one of their friends is willing to make a sworn statement that it’d been planned, that he’d had that ring in his possession for at least two months and so it goes nowhere.

Between the loss of Alexander's testimony and some fancy footwork with suppression motions by Aaron Burr, there’s no case left at all and it falls apart before it even gets in front of a grand jury.

George doesn’t know whether he’s relieved to find he’d not pushed Alexander toward anything he wasn’t already headed right for like a deer in front of an oncoming train, or whether he could have gone forever without knowing he was never going to be able to prevent it, but either way the outcome is the same; Mercer loses his indictment. George loses Alexander.

~~~

Or maybe he doesn’t, because a few weeks later Alexander shows up for dinner with a box under his arm and a regretful _we were out of town, I missed your anniversary_ on his lips, the closest Alexander ever typically gets to an apology.

Maybe he doesn’t, because Alexander asks _thirty’s pearl, right?_ with a careless shrug, even though it’s obvious he already knows damn well, has done his research, because he always does, and because the chess set George finds himself with is carved Mother of Pearl and bone, white squares of the anniversary stone set into beautiful mahogany, and even as he smiles a gruff _thank you, but you shouldn’t have_ he wonders if Alexander has been saving for this since the crack of George’s old set breaking on worn hospital linoleum.

Maybe he doesn’t, because for the first time in years, Alexander sits down and plays a full game.

George watches him fiddle with his ring, twist it around his finger again and again like a nervous tic, He turns it upside down until the stone faces inward and he can press reflexively at it with his thumb. His feet shift and he taps that ruby over and over but he stays in his seat and finishes the game, and when he loses he glares at the board for a second and chews his lip.

Maybe he doesn’t, because Alexander reaches out, resets the pieces and demands to go again.

And so they do.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> complètement inutile, sur-réagissant, je n'ai pas besoin de ça / completely useless, over-reacting, I don't need this  
> Je ne, je ne peux pas / I don't, I can't  
> ~~~  
> How DO you react when your pseudo-kid marries a known crime lord? As much as I really wanted to write George fully, fatherly welcoming, it never came. This seemed more accurate; he loves Alex, he'll accept that Alex is an adult who makes his own choices, and even mostly _wants_ Thomas to be serious about his kid (because if he's fucking around and going to hurt Alex there'll be trouble), but sort of can't bring himself to actually like or even have anything to do with Thomas, because, yaknow. Thomas is a teensy bit problematic.  
> ~~~  
> [Title from: Medicinal Reality by From First to Last]


End file.
